


The Place of the Lion

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1525853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam needs something more from Cas in 9.11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Place of the Lion

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/kinks/contents: pain kink, barbed cock, sorta bestiality (form-shifting sex).
> 
> Written for salt_burn_porn for oddishly's prompt, "fake it till you make it."

At the time, Castiel had had other things on his mind. He was killing Sam. And Sam had wanted it. Maybe not death, exactly, not with a single mind, but the needle in his flesh, drawing out something of him, the pain he’d asked Castiel to give him. Most of all, the chance of immolation. Castiel had been focused on the _no_ in his own mind, the _no farther_. Perhaps a useless gesture, like all his rebellions. But Sam had lived. That was the essential point. 

It had been the least of Castiel’s concerns, the way Sam’s jeans had tented as the needle drove deeper, the way his breath had gone harsh and panting. Humans have these reactions. It doesn’t mean anything. It certainly isn’t Castiel’s responsibility. But it niggles at him.

Castiel is not a healer. He is mending Sam with grace he stole by murder. It’s absurd to suppose he can ever do more than atone. He can’t pretend to offer anything Sam needs, beyond the most basic repairs. But he can’t quite get away from the feeling that Sam expects more of him. 

They’re sitting in silence that night, after their awkward, chaste hug, eating tunafish molecule sandwiches in the kitchen. Castiel keeps catching Sam’s glances, dark and speculative. As though it’s only a matter of time before Sam comes up with something else to ask that Castiel can’t give.

“Can I talk about something?” Sam says finally. It confirms Castiel’s fears.

“Of course,” he says.

Sam looks down at the kitchen table, speaking in a rush. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong impression,” he says, “like you’re stuck in the bunker, with, with some perv with a weird, masochistic crush. I know you saw, with the whole grace thing, that I was, was. Well. I mean, I’m sure you noticed.”

“You were aroused,” says Castiel. He could tell Sam that this reaction had not been particularly important to him, and it would be true, but it wouldn’t help Sam. If Castiel has set himself to keep Sam alive, if he has decided that this is important to him, he must at least pretend that he is capable of more than denying Sam his death.

Sam flushes. It’s a strange thing to choose to be embarrassed about, given what else Sam had revealed in the course of that aborted procedure. 

“Do you want sex?” Castiel asks. It seems best to be direct. This is a part of Sam. This is a part of Sam that Dean would want healed. “Or pain?” that is the likelier possibility, but a more difficult one.

“Jesus, Cas,” says Sam, “don’t beat about the bush or anything.” But he looks relieved, his shoulders relaxing. “No. No, not really. I mean, it’s not that. It’s just. For a little while there, I _knew_ , like I was so aware I couldn’t not be aware. Like nothing could happen without my knowing. I don’t know how to put it. I mean, yes. Kind of. I don’t know. I know it’s weird. It’s not, it’s not anything I’ve been into before.” 

But now he is looking at Castiel with his lips parted, as though Castiel is something he desires. Not Castiel, though. Someone who would drive a needle into his neck. And maybe someone who would stop. Maybe. Sam reaches out, cautiously, as though he expects Castiel to strike his hand away, and brushes his fingers over Castiel’s lips.

Sam is beautiful. That is something Castiel recognizes. The planes of his face and body, the knots and grain of scarred light in his soul, these are things of his Father’s creation and they are good. They are good even when God has abandoned them, when He has left them to Castiel and to Sam and Dean to ruin between them. Maybe God wants this. Maybe God wants Castiel to become what he isn’t, to heal Sam. But he can’t quite imagine disrobing here, trying the awkward paces of human sex again. He can’t imagine taking one of the Men of Letters’ instruments, another needle from their laboratory, and hurting Sam with it, marking Sam’s body as Sam’s own with pain, if that’s what Sam needs. Castiel is no longer human. He is an angel with stolen grace. He is nothing. He needs to be more.

“Perhaps . . .” says Castiel. Yes, this is possible. Not to pretend what he is not, but to reach to what Sam needs of what he is. Castiel cannot draw on heaven, but this refuge of the Men of Letters exists in more dimensions than most of this world. He cannot shape his true form — it would only destroy Sam, in any case — but he can manifest his Faces. 

He has always shown them the face of the man. That’s easiest, when he’s bound by a human vessel. But now he stretches, summoning talons and beak and the leashed bolt of pride. But his wings are gone. This form will not do. The bull, the bull is closer. It even has something of Sam, now Castiel reflects on it. Sam has a ruminative weight to him, a patient, banked fire of rage. And he is a worker. But that one is a force Castiel has never quite mastered. He’s no expert in the uses of mass. And Sam would go under his hooves without a word, like grain on a threshing floor. That is not what Castiel wants. Sam needs something sharper, the beast cruel enough to offer its prey an escape, the one who can offer him pain. Castiel reaches for the form of the lion, pulls it on like a cloak, feels his shoulders surge with power, as though he’d regained his wings.

Castiel shakes his mane and Sam’s eyes go wide. He backs instinctively, scrambling away from the table, stumbling, graceless, hot blood leaping live in his throat. None of that, little mouse. Castiel is on him, pouncing. One heavy paw bats Sam to the floor. Castiel can smell his arousal. He sits back on his haunches, waits, watching what will happen. Sam scoots across the floor, almost out of reach, and Castiel hooks him back, casual claw in the loop of his jeans.

“Cas?” says Sam. And the quaver of hope is enough. Sam has always wanted to be saved. He has also always wanted, stubbornly, perversely, to do the work himself. Not this time. Sam has prayed, and his prayers have been answered. He’s offered himself in sacrifice, and Castiel is going to take him and give him back to himself. He bares his teeth, a warning lion cough, and Sam goes still while Castiel slices off his clothing with careful claws.

It will be a difficult balance, keeping this within the limits of what Sam can endure. Not killing Sam is his aim here, after all. It’s important to focus on that. Castiel is careful at Sam’s entrance. He can’t prepare him in the finicky, human ways Sam may be accustomed to, but he laves with his tongue till the ring of Sam’s flesh is wet and shiny, till the rolled tip of Castiel’s rough cat tongue finds its way in and Sam writhes, moaning, legs clenching, heels digging in to the thick fur of Castiel’s back. That’s ready enough, more than ready. Castiel can smell it on him. It’s time. He can feel his tail lashing, a growl rising in his throat as he pushes in.

Sam grunts, moving to meet him. This isn’t the hard part. Sam hasn’t got to the hard part yet, doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for. He’s taken Castiel in deep, he thinks he’s doing well, hard, breathing strong, palming his dick with a smile on his face and a lion pawing his chest, a little smug, as Winchesters are. He’s summoned an angel, and he thinks he’s got Cas, friendly Cas. He’s a bit disappointed, too. Just Cas, after all. But Sam has Castiel. Sam has more than he bargained for, and maybe for once it will be enough. Castiel shifts back inside Sam, a bare trace of movement, just enough that his barbs catch. Sam goes rigid, surprised, breath hissing between his teeth, and Castiel pushes his wet nose in Sam’s ear, paws at his throat, claws unsheathed, though this is dangerous, dangerous.

Hot gold pours through Castiel, and Sam is burning, bleeding. Castiel drops his muzzle to Sam’s throat where his claws broke soft skin. He snuffs Sam’s blood, hot lion breath stirring sweat-plastered hair. How could Sam ever imagine himself impure? How could Castiel have thought him impure? Castiel licks, tastes fire. Sam arches up to the rasp of Castiel’s tongue, tugs at his mane, muscles straining, growls as though he’s competing, as though he thinks he can match the lion’s roar, as though he still imagines he has a chance here, now, against what Castiel is showing him. Cub. Castiel draws out, barbs rasping deep fire. Did you know, Sam? Did you know? My Father gave cats these barbed organs. He gave you pain. He gave you pain, and now you’re in love with it. Maybe He knew what he was doing.

Sam screams, face contorting, throat drawn back, tendons tense with life, with desire, with surrender. Surrender isn’t enough, not now. Castiel drives in again, harder, pulls back, out, in, shredding Sam, tearing the core of him. Let the fire bleed through, no mercy, no mercy. Look at it, boy. See yourself on fire in the gold of my mane. See yourself beautiful. Castiel’s furred thighs trap Sam, smother him, bear him down. There’s blood everywhere, scalding. Castiel’s claws crush Sam’s chest, his teeth close, teasing Sam’s throat. Sam’s arms grope vainly for a grip, some leverage against the power rumbling in Castiel’s ribcage. Then they fall back, his hands open at his sides. Castiel’s breath steals Sam’s. Sam is laid open, flayed, under him, veins bleeding fire, cock spurting weak white, nothing, no counterargument. Castiel will have none of that. Castiel pumps him full with molten gold, sees Sam ripple, dissolve, gasp like a fish out of water. Live. Live. See yourself, boy. Castiel breathes in fire-threaded darkness with the last breath of Sam’s lungs. Everything shakes, shatters, crashes from the walls as Castiel subsides. 

Sam makes a weak noise, a cry like a kitten’s, nuzzles Castiel’s throat. He’s alive, then.

Sam’s hand is moving against Castiel’s damp, goose-pimpled skin. Castiel is human again, Jimmy’s form, stripped to indignity, like a naked, plucked chicken. Why are humans so ridiculous? Sam is cold. Probably shock. Probably blood loss. Dean won’t be pleased. But this was necesary. Castiel stands, with difficulty. His borrowed limbs are shaking. His borrowed grace flickers, almost out. He gets a blanket from Dean’s bedroom, crawls back in beside Sam in his corner of the bare kitchen, spreads it over both of them, sleeps, Sam’s shallow breaths keeping time.

“I can heal you,” says Castiel next morning. At least, he thinks it’s morning. He’d woken cramped, itchy with Sam’s dried blood, and panicking. But Sam’s pulse is steady. There are deep claw-scores across his chest, teeth marks at his throat, blood on his thighs, but his eyes are clear and his smile, if anything, rueful.

Castiel hopes that healing will be what Sam wants, because Sam’s attraction to pain is uncomfortable. Nor is it easy to remember what he had done to grant Sam’s wishes.

Sam moves and winces.

“Yeah,” he says, “probably a good plan. Thanks.”

Cas puts his hands on Sam’s thighs, gently. He tracks the healing warmth as it spreads up and inward, watches the raw wounds close on Sam’s skin. Sam’s cock stirs, hardens a little, then relaxes against its nest of gold-brown hair. Sam is beautiful, even in the light of human morning. He looks . . . shy, Castiel decides. Sam looks shy.

“Was that . . . your true form?” Sam asks.

“Not exactly,” says Castiel, relieved to have a question he can answer about the previous night’s proceedings. “That was one of my faces. A personification of an aspect, if you will. Insofar as my true form has dimension, it would be the size of your Chrysler building.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Sam laughs. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, “that might be a bit much for me. Not sure I could take the Chrysler building.” 

Sam’s responses are still confusing, even after Castiel has made himself the one to elicit them. 

“You almost died,” Castiel points out. “I don’t think what we did was wise. We shouldn’t try it again.” He’s not sure, in any case, that he wants to bring those parts of himself down to this plane again. 

Sam stretches cautiously, smiling.

“Once in a lifetime experience,” he agrees. “Or once in several lifetimes, I guess. I still can’t believe it. I got fucked by fucking Aslan. You even used to be God.”

That sounds like an accusation, as though Sam is tallying Castiel’s sins. That would be an ungenerous gesture, not something Castiel would expect of Sam, after Castiel confessed his crimes, after he acknowledged that they are worse than Sam’s. After he nonetheless gave Sam his penance, even if he was also seeking his own. They both have room for selfishness here. But Sam is grinning, a crazy grin, and for a moment he looks just like Dean, he looks just like Sam, he looks like sweaty, impermeable skin with a sheen of light where the muscle moves under it. He looks as though if Castiel put his vessel’s lips _there_ , he’d taste salt, not molecules.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the experience,” Castiel says, with only a little irony. “Shall I make us some tea?” Dean turns down everything but black coffee, but Sam has a taste for tea. He settles back against the wall, stretching out his legs, a brief notch of pain in his forehead. Castiel healed him, surely, fundamentally Sam is as whole as Castiel can make him for now, but perhaps Castiel will be forgiven for leaving a trace of discomfort. It had troubled him, the thought that Sam might immediately forget, while he himself was still shaken.

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam says, “tea. Tea would be good.”


End file.
